


The Forgiveness Handbook

by TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Character Study, Infidelity, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard/pseuds/TheSwingbyJeanHonoreFragonard
Summary: You can't always fix a broken heart but there are ways to apologize for smashing one.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 15
Kudos: 66





	The Forgiveness Handbook

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TRASHCAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TRASHCAKE/gifts), [megaotaku98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/megaotaku98/gifts).



**A.) You Must Admit That There Is A Problem.**

The two of them got together on a freezing cold, rainy day in spring. 

Clothes soaked, hair dripping, noses red and sniffly, they had kissed for the very first time beneath a bent umbrella, standing in a puddle on the sidewalk, the wind howling down the street around them.

Minho had called the moment romantic. A dramatic confession like something straight off a television screen. 

Chan had called it an annoyance. The rain had gotten in the way of all of his plans to surprise Minho for that day. A walk through the park while the cherry blossoms were blooming. Brunch on the terrace of a beautiful French cafe. He’d have asked Minho to go out with him when the waitress served dessert. He’d have finally put a label on the weird way their relationship worked. 

The soggy kiss in the rain had paled in comparison to the theatrical way he’d dreamed their morning should go.

Minho had said yes anyway.

The two of them broke up on a sunny, autumn day. Over a year later. The weather had been warm, tricking everyone out of their coats and scarves only to harass them with a biting, chilly wind.

It had been no different with Chan. Lured to the neighborhood park by Minho’s sweet-sounding promise, just to have his heart ripped apart by Minho’s casual admission of guilt.

“What?” Chan, usually the calm, collected, sturdy one of the pair, had surprised himself with how quickly the hurt and the anger had come. “What did you just say?” But he had heard clearly. He didn’t actually need Minho to repeat something so wretched. “You told me he was just a friend!”

Minho, usually the emotional, loud and excitable one, hung his head and dug his nails into the splintered surface of the wooden picnic table. He’d cheated. Plain and simple. And the main reason he was shocked wasn’t because he’d hurt Chan but because of how easy it had been to do it. “Well, he  _ was _ just a friend. Back when you first asked.”

Chan screamed at him. No words. Just noise. Volume. But it was a bit pathetic how little his anger changed the world. The kids in the jungle gym continued to shout at each other and chase each other around. The parents watching from the benches continued their conversations, heads not even swiveling towards the two young men at the picnic table. The flock of ducks in the grass nearby weren’t the least bit disturbed and continued pecking at the ground for food. Chan stood up, hands balled into fists, phone primed like he was ready to throw it. He reconsidered. Sat back down. Then stood up again. His entire face was red. His eyes were glassy with oncoming tears. “You said he was just a friend.” His voice got thin. Raspy. “He was  _ our _ friend.”

Minho felt bad. 

He didn’t feel bad because he’d smashed Chan’s heart like this but because he wasn’t all too sure he felt wrong about doing it. He wasn’t sure if the hollowness in his chest was guilt or something else. It wasn’t an emotion he was entirely familiar with as he always did only the things he wanted and never what anyone else needed. Minho sat there, idly scratching away at the picnic table’s surface with his nails. He met Chan’s eyes and knew that an apology wouldn’t be enough. He knew that whatever he said or did wouldn’t make up for what he’d done.

For what he still wanted to do.

“I can’t believe this,” Chan choked out. Legitimately choked the words out around a sob. “I trusted you.” Then he turned around, swung one leg over the picnic table bench, then the other.

He left.

Minho watched him leave. Part of him expected Chan to change his mind. To stop and come back. Decide that things should go back to normal. He didn’t. The other and slightly more sensible part of Minho knew he should probably call out.  _ We can talk about this _ , he should say.  _ I’m sorry _ , he should say.

But the words didn’t leave his mouth. 

He just watched handsome, wonderful Chan walk away snot-nosed and crying into the mockingly bright, beautiful afternoon.

  
  
  


**B.) You Must Pinpoint The Problem’s Origin.**

As Minho walked home, he tried to think about all of the problems that led up to this.

Chan’s odd sleeping habits were a major obstacle. They disrupted most of the quality time the couple spent together. If Chan had slept over at Minho’s house, no matter how much effort Minho put into making the man comfortable, Minho woke up at some ungodly hour in the morning to discover that Chan was already gone, like a one night stand vanishing into the night. But Chan was no one night stand. They were boyfriends. And even after all these months, the man preferred the comforts of his own bed. 

Some nights, when Minho went over to his house, Chan would succumb to his exhaustion early in the night. At around 8PM or sometimes even earlier. And he was such a light, fretful sleeper that Minho couldn’t watch television in the living room or call up a friend or use the shower without waking up Chan and starting him up on a rant. But then, on other nights, Chan would stay up until 4 or even 5 in the morning, eyes glazed over from how long he’d been staring at the computer screen, and no amount of coaxing or teasing would lure the man to bed. Even for another round.

Minho thought about how he’d gone to culinary school and could cook up stylish French foods or whip together something Italian or Japanese, but Chan was perfectly satisfied eating whatever odd Australian snacks his family sent him from overseas. He was perfectly fine with a cheap bowl of ramen, even if Minho had stocked his fridge.

Minho thought about how Chan hardly ever wore any of the clothes or coats Minho gifted him. How the man found no fault in making a 9PM convenience store run in his pajamas. 

Yet, as badly as Minho wanted to pin the blame on Chan in some way, he knew that the problem was with him. He knew that he’d done something wrong. Something taboo. He  _ knew _ that he had spent one too many nights enjoying fried chicken and beer at Hyunjin’s rooftop apartment. He knew he had let Hyunjin’s hand linger on his thigh when he should have slapped it away. Minho knew that he at least should have hesitated before he answered when Hyunjin had leaned into his face, giggling, and asked “Wanna fuck?” 

He knew he should have said no. 

Minho was the reason he and Chan had broken up. 

It was his own bad decision that had led them to this.

  
  
  


**C.) You Must Not Make Major Choices While Emotional.**

Minho didn’t know where to go. For some strange reason, he had fully expected that he’d still be asked back to Chan’s apartment after all of this. Now he walked down the sidewalk, feeling lost. Directionless. 

Regret was an awful companion. 

The emotion was a nasty, clawed, bestial thing that rattled his ribs like the iron bars of a cage. 

Minho regretted hurting Chan.

He regretted  _ telling _ Chan.

As awful and as selfish and as shitty as it sounded, Minho wondered if he should have told Chan at all.

Hyunjin wouldn’t have told. Ever. He was just that kind of guy. Kiss, don’t tell. Fuck, don’t tell.

But perhaps that promised silence was why Minho  _ had _ to tell. 

If Minho kept quiet, he might have been able to hang out with the rest of their group and watch Hyunjin and Chan interact. He might have been able to watch them smile and laugh and joke and feed each other like all good friends did. He might have even been able to take Chan home and kiss him and make love and not experience a single pang of guilt. But Minho knew he wouldn’t be able to be left alone with Hyunjin again.

He knew they would fuck again. 

And again.

Minho couldn’t find himself pinned to the sheets beneath Hyunjin’s hands a second time. And that’s why he had to tell.

Minho snorted back a self-deprecating laugh as he walked farther away from the park.

Was he upset that he’d lost Chan’s trust or was he upset that he’d told on himself when it had been the perfect crime?

Because he really didn’t have to say anything. He really didn’t. He didn’t have to invite Chan out to their favorite park, of all places, and solemnly announce, “Hyunjin and I fucked last night.”

Psssh.

Minho laughed at himself again. Louder. A frog-like croak that sounded absolutely broken. Sometime in the last few seconds, he’d started crying. Minho used the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe at his face. Did he even  _ deserve _ to cry? Did he even deserve to feel bad when he so readily stripped out of his clothes in order to feel Hyunjin’s calloused fingertips on his skin? To feel Hyunjin’s plump lips against his own? Did he even deserve to be regretful when he’d literally begged Hyunjin to put his dick in him?

But he did feel bad.

He felt terrible. Wretched. Vile.

He’d hurt Chan. 

Yeah, Chan was annoying as fuck sometimes. He sucked the fun out of jokes and pranks by taking them too seriously but he was a great guy! Kind and smart and brave and thoughtful. He remembered the smallest, most random things about Minho’s interests, which always genuinely shocked him because Chan always gave off the impression that he wasn’t listening. 

Minho had hurt  _ him _ .

And for what? A mouth full of Hyunjin’s cum and a dry orgasm that had his entire body shaking?

Still laughing, crazed, pained, Minho wiped the last of his tears off of his face. 

He would have to earn Chan’s forgiveness. 

He would have to.

  
  
  


**D.) You Must Accept That You May Not Always Get Back What You Lost.**

Minho stopped at a stationary store.

He bought several “I’m Sorry” balloons. (On one of them, the store attendant had to tape over “For Your Loss.”) Then he bought a greeting card and filled the interior with his best handwriting, detailing a lengthy letter asking for a second chance.

Then Minho stopped at a florist to buy a single red rose.

After that, he stopped by a fast food restaurant to order two fully-loaded burgers with a side of salty fries because if he had learned anything about Chan over the last eighteen months or so, it was that the man’s one weakness was junk food.

It was noon when Minho finished up everything and arrived outside of Chan’s studio apartment.

Minho called first and was still surprised when Chan didn’t answer his phone.

Minho called again, certain he could hear Chan’s ringtone going off somewhere inside. That old Ed Sheeran song that Minho couldn’t stand.

Then he knocked. Then he knocked again.

Perhaps Chan hadn’t made it back home yet? Or perhaps he’d gone out recently but left his phone--

Minho jerked his head to the right. Movement had caught his eye. Even right then, as he stood there, he watched the blinds on Chan’s window swing back and forth gently, as if Chan had just been standing there, peering out at him from inside. 

“I’m sorry,” Minho apologized. Because he realized that he hadn’t actually said those words aloud until now. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wanted to be honest with you. I didn’t want to lie or keep it secret. That’s why I told you.” And perhaps he was asking for far too much, thinking he’d earn some kind of imaginary currency by coming clean like this. “I don’t know why I did it,” Minho admitted, “but don’t be mad at Hyunjin. Be mad at me. Take it out on me. It’s my fault.”  _ It just sounded fun at the time _ , he wanted to say, but, thankfully, he didn’t. And sex with Hyunjin had been  _ fun _ . Kissing each other’s knuckles. Tickling each other’s ribs and feet and that soft, sensitive spot behind the knee. “What I did was wrong.” They laughed through so much of it. They got lube all over the couch cushions. Hyunjin tore two condoms with his teeth by accident before opening the packet with his fingers like a normal person. The two of them giggled like it was the best thing ever. The sex was all so warm and slow and comfortable that Minho hadn’t even realized he’d cum the first time until Hyunjin had promised to make him cum again. But Minho definitely couldn’t say  _ that _ . Not now. Not ever. He cleared his throat before he stated, “But I won’t do it again, Chan. I swear.”

He called Chan’s phone again. Twice. He knocked on the door for two or three minutes.

Chan did not open the door.

“I’m sorry,” said Minho. “I shouldn’t have hurt you like that. I shouldn’t have ruined things.” He was being honest. He had just seen Chan like an hour ago but he missed the man already. Missed his slightly crooked eyes and his definitely crooked smile. He missed the way Chan hugged him, so tight it almost hurt. He missed the softness of Chan’s mouth on his. He missed the gentle way Chan dragged his fingers along the veins in Minho’s arm before holding his hand. Minho said again, “I’m sorry.”

But the door remained shut. Locked.

The apartment remained dark. Quiet. Still.

Minho’s calls remained unanswered, sent straight to voicemail.

Minho gave up.

He tied the dozen ribbons of the balloons around Chan’s door handle. He sat the fast food bag, and the envelope with the greeting card in it, and the single rose down on the doormat like an offering at an altar, and then he walked away.

Minho walked down the outdoor stairs, shivering in the wickedly cold wind despite how bright the sun was. Despite how green some of the trees still were. 

He made it to the ground floor. His legs didn’t feel like they were attached to his body. His heart felt like it was floating above him, somewhere off in the clouds. If he didn’t get a handle on his emotions, he’d start crying again and he still doubted that he’d earned the right to cry. 

Minho had been the one to fuck up. It was his fault for being led astray. For being dazzled. It was his own fault.

No. He couldn’t give up so easily. He couldn’t stop just at this. He had so much more to say! 

Minho turned around and walked back up the stairs that he had just come down. All the way up to the fourth floor.

He listed all of the great things about Chan in his head as he went. All of the things he _ liked _ about Chan. The man’s intelligence and his  _ creativity _ and his grace and the pretty way he laughed in the few moments where he threw his head back and let himself go. Chan was wonderful. Amazing. And Minho didn’t know why he’d so easily, so readily, done something so atrocious to him.

Minho made it to the top of the stairs, his hands freezing in the chill wind. He walked down the breezeway, and turned the corner. 

He couldn’t see the balloons. Had Chan accepted his apology? Minho hadn’t been gone but a handful of minutes. Five at the most. Had Chan waited until Minho left to open his door and accept all of the gifts?

Minho grinned. From ear to ear. Excitement bubbled up in him. Happiness. Joy. He would take this chance and he would hold on to it tightly. He’d work to repay Chan tenfold. He’d do anything.

Then Minho’s heart sank.

As quickly as joy came to him, it left him.

His smile broke apart.

On Chan’s doorstep, Minho spotted a dozen popped balloons, their ribbons still attached to the door handle. He spotted the envelope and greeting card ripped to confetti and scattered about the outdoor, cement hall. He saw a single, shredded red rose. He saw the stomped-flat fast food bag, the ketchup staining the cement like spilled blood.

Well. There was Chan’s answer.

  
  
  


**E.) The More It Means To You, The Longer You Should Be Willing To Wait.**

Three weeks.

Three whole weeks dragged by.

Minho’s birthday came and went. He spent it alone and miserable.

His coworkers at the restaurant asked him what was up but Minho couldn’t bring himself to tell them something so personal. Something so wretched. So he lied and said that one of his cats had died.

Minho stopped replying to Hyunjin’s texts, even though all of them were shallow and innocent and usually about some kdrama that the two of them had been keeping up with.

Fuck. Had it all been a bad dream? Had it all been some unpleasant nightmare?

Minho sent Chan text after text, trying to keep his tone friendly and light. “Awful day at work,” he texted one evening, “but the manager hinted at me possibly being promoted to head chef. Isn’t that great?”

On another evening, he sent, “Jisung got me hooked on this new mobile game. It’s all I’ve been playing since Monday. Have you heard of it?” He sent half a dozen of his favorite screenshots.

Early one morning, he sent, “Tickets to that concert are sold out already. Even the nosebleed seats. I should have bought ours back when you had first got on my ass about it.”

The next day, he sent, simply, succinctly, “I’m sorry.” 

That was the last text he sent. 

Forget replying to them. Chan wasn’t even  _ reading _ them. And perhaps that was for the best.

October bled into November.

The weather got colder and colder. The sky got grayer and grayer.

Minho’s body ached. His emotions had never been so jumbled up and confusing before but they had also never been so crystal clear: he hated himself.

He hated himself for losing Chan. He hated himself for being greedy. For being selfish. For wanting  _ more _ even though Chan was enough. He hated himself for thinking he could win Chan back just by apologizing. Wouldn’t Chan be the foolish one if he took Minho back? No. Even if it would be foolish, even if it would be idiotic, that was all Minho dreamed of. A second chance. An opportunity to make things right. As he tried to fall asleep that night, tossing and turning in his sheets that had stopped smelling like Chan a month ago, Minho promised himself, he promised the sky and the clouds, he promised the  _ universe _ , that he would never be the reason Chan cried like that. Ever again.

The next morning, Minho woke up to a simple text:

“That shitty movie we both hate comes on tonight. 8PM. Want to come over and make fun of it like we usually do?”

Minho almost didn’t realize who the message was from.

  
  
  


**F.) You Must Never Make The Same Mistake Again.**


End file.
